The Viper, The Bull, The Bat, and the Star

They walked, not especially fast nor particularly slow, cutting a path through the swathes of ice before them. A salty Dornishman led them, spear in hand, looking toward the blazing speck in the darkness. That was their destination, and Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell would be damned if any of those glorified bodyguards stopped him getting there.

'Oberyn,' one called from behind. 'We need to slow down. Gerold's leg can't take any more of this. Please, just allow us to stop for the night.'

Whilst Oberyn—apart from this damned cold—had never felt better (with the headache he'd suffered at the hands of the Mountain mere hours before miraculously disappearing), the same could not be said for the rest of his companions. Minutes after meeting Oberyn, Ser Gerold Hightower had slipped on a patch of ice and, from the looks of things, broken his leg. The Red Viper had considered putting his training from the Citadel to use and helping the old Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, before remembering the distinct absence of any guards for his family during the sack of King's Landing all those years ago.

As far as he was concerned, the bastard could suffer.

'We're close to a camp, Oswell. Either we reach that and survive the night, or we can slowly freeze and be devoured by shadowcats and direwolves and whatever the fuck is out there. We keep moving.'

With that, the Prince of Dorne kept moving, the glowing ember in the distance growing ever closer.

The Young Wolf

Thinking back to Winterfell all those years ago, Robb had remembered his disappointment upon his first sighting of King Robert. He'd been fat and he'd been old and he'd been a far cry from the warrior their father had told them tales of. Robb hardly would've believed the same man stood before him had it not been for the same sense of tiredness practically radiating from him—the slumped shoulders, the hooded eyes, the dragging legs all pointed to a man on the edge of giving up.

'They-they're all the Kingslayer's? All three of them?'

'Aye.' His father's response was simple but sufficient. 'I'm sorry, Robert.'

'If it's any consolation, your Grace,' Robb said, looking at the broken man before him. 'He spent months laying in his own shit after being defeated by a boy who was still green as grass at the time.'

'Ha!' The king barked, albeit without mirth. 'Who?'

'Me.'

'Tywin's ilk, brought low by a wolf pup. Ha!' Robb ignored the slight, seeing that his namesake clearly needed the distraction. 'The bastard probably still thought himself untouchable after Castamere. Gods, to see the look on his face.' A twig snapped under the boot of the old king.

'Who goes there!'

The voice rang out from the darkness. The accent seemed to be from the Riverlands, an eerie echo of his uncle Edmure.

'Show yourself! We have no desire to hurt you but will do so if threatened. Now, come here with your hands clear of your weapons.' Robert's voice was like thunder—this was not the voice of a man who'd whored his way into an early grave, cuckolded all the while, but the boom of the leader who'd crushed both the chest of the dragon prince and the squid rebellion in the same manner.

'Nor do I have any desire to fight.' The figure was still shrouded in shadow but was coming closer. 'One of my party collapsed a mile back and I was sent ahead to look for aid.'

The man was now visible in the dim light of the moon—tall, broad shouldered, handsome but for the pock-marked face. Most notable, however, was his armour. The famed white armour of the Kingsguard.

'Hello Oswell,' Robb heard his father say.

'Lord Stark. Baratheon.' At least the man had the good grace not to attack them. 'As far as I'm aware, one of your lot killed me less than a day ago. That was quite enough for me, so might I propose a truce?'

His father spoke again. 'You may.'

'One of my brothers has fallen. If he does not find warmth, he will die, and so I ask for your assistance in bringing him to what I assume is your camp.'

'Which one?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Which brother. Dayne? Ser Lewyn? Which one requires aid?'

'Gerold. Uh, Ser Hightower.'

'The same Ser Hightower who beat my sister, who allowed Rhaegar to rape her and leave her to die in a desert?'

'Aye. The very same, I'm afraid.' Oswell then realised what he'd heard. 'She's here? Lady Lyanna is here?'

'No thanks to you.' His father shifted, taking his hand off the hilt of his sword. 'As much as I'd like to have you killed all over again, I do not have the right. That belongs to my sister, and no other. Come to our fire, make your case, and we will make a decision.'

With that, Lord Stark turned around and walked back with Robert immediately following him.

'You must be Cat's son.' The knight spoke, not yet moving, but rather looking curiously at Robb.

'That's Lady Stark to you,' Robb replied coldly. He did not know nor trust this man, and as such the familiarity with which he addressed his mother was deeply unnerving.

'Apologies. Her mother was my cousin, I believe? It's all rather confusing. Anyhow, that would make us kin, by all the laws of gods and men.' He stuck out a hand for Robb to shake.

The Young Wolf stared for a moment, first at the hand, then at the man himself, and then followed his father without another word.

The White Bat

All in all, it could have gone far worse. He might have slipped as Gerold did before reaching any of the men, freezing to a cold, pitiful death in the arsehole of nowhere. He might have come across a pack of wildlings or direwolves or any number of death sentences existing this far north. He might have been killed as soon as he'd been seen.

No, all in all, meeting two people he knew of by name, and another whose identity could be deduced by any simpleton was likely the best possible outcome. Now came the hard part.

They'd reached the camp—if it could even be called that—as the earliest hints of sunrise began to emerge from the horizon. It was naught more than a fire, with a number of prone bodies surrounding it, all lying as close as they could to the warmth, most with a weapon in easy reach. It was the face he'd been dreading facing the most, however, that woke first, meeting his stare in an emotionless gaze.

'Ser Oswell.' Her voice contained no anger, but he wasn't so foolish as to believe that all was necessarily forgiven.

'Dearest Princess,' he shouted, rousing others from their slumber. 'I beg your forgiveness. It is piss-poor, simply unbefitting of a knight to appear before his lady without any kind of gift. I tried to find some flowers, but it's too bloody cold, you see.' With that, he contorted his body into a ridiculous bow, arms simultaneously folded and outstretched, legs in agonising contrast.

It had been their game back in the Red Mountains, whenever her melancholy lifted for long enough for her to joke; her playing the haughty princess and he the devoted knight. Despite him acting on behalf of their captor, Oswell reckoned they'd built up a tentative friendship over her months of labour.

Lyanna stared, her eyes giving nothing away. 'Twenty years.' She rose and walked over to the knight. 'Twenty years, and you haven't got any funnier.' She smiled and pulled him into a hug. 'It's good to see you, Oz.'

He grinned, enjoying the warmth of her body after hours of walking through the snow. 'You too, my lady.' The peace didn't last long.

'Ser Oswell! Ser, we are surrounded. We must run, and quickly!' Rhaegar Targaryen, once the pride of the seven kingdoms, was a sorry sight—his face was bruised, his hair dishevelled, his eyes wide and constantly darting around.

'Fuck off.'

'I beg your pardon?' His lilac eyes flashed dangerously. 'Just who, Ser, do you think you're talking to?'

'Well, your grace, I was having a think on the walk over here, and I realised that the Kingsguard serves for life. And as I'm sure Lord Stark would be happy to attest, my life ended guarding your captive bride at the Tower of Joy. As such, I no longer serve you.' With that, Rhaegar stilled.

'Ser Oswell was telling us before that there were more people—Kingsguard, if I'm not mistaken—still out in the cold.' Lord Stark's son was now talking. 'He requested our aid in retrieving them. Will anyone come with me to find them?'

Silence.

'Fine.'

Lyanna Stark stood, as did a tall man—Baratheon by the looks of him—and the smallest Targaryen.

'Let us be off then,' said Oswell. 'And pray we are not too late.'

They left the camp in single file, Oswell at the head, Robb at the tail. It was getting light, and all the darkness of the past night seemed to be behind them.

None of them saw the pair of bright blue eyes watching them in the distance.

Lyonel

They walked fast, aware that any delay could prove fatal to the man they were trying to reach. Not that that would be a particularly great loss, based on what he'd heard from the knight and the lady. Loyalty was an admirable trait, but not toward one who hadn't earned such devotion, and never to the extent of beating a helpless lady. Lyonel may not have been a particularly skilled lord, but he was a damned good knight, and so knew the importance of protecting the innocent, just as he had for a lowborn squire at Ashford Meadow all those years ago.

They found the men Oswell had spoken of huddled together at the root of a tree. There were two Dornishmen; one stony and one salty, one in the white plate of a Kingsguard and the other in light leather armour, both sat with their heads against the trunk and their eyes closed. As Oswell reached them, the Kingsguard opened one eye at the sound of the snow crunching beneath his boot.

'Hello Oz. Lyanna.' There was no emotion in his voice, like that of a soldier after his third straight day of marching. 'You've brought help. Excellent. I'm afraid Gerold isn't doing too well.'

Lyonel hadn't yet noticed the third man. He was lying on his back, his armour blending with both the snow and his pale, sweaty face, rendering him almost invisible. The man mumbled incoherently, his face shivering ever so slightly, but he gradually propped himself into a sitting position.

'Brothers, Prince Oberyn. I've brought aid from the camp. I reckon between the lot of us we can get him back there within the hour.' Oswell gestured to each of his companions in turn. 'You know Lyanna, of course. This is Robb Stark, Aegon Targaryen, and this is Ser Lyonel Baratheon.' He finished with his arm in the vague direction of Lyonel.

At this, the other Dornishman opened his eyes. 'The Laughing Storm, a Dragon King, and the King in the North in the same place as the White Bull and the Sword of the Morning? Gods, we certainly aren't lacking for company.' The man stood and began finger the shaft of his spear as if preparing for a fight.

'W-who's th-the other one?' Gerold managed to gasp, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

'That's it I'm afraid, Ser. That was all we could spare,' Oswell replied, speaking to his old Lord Commander as if he were a child.

'N-no. Who's that behind you?' Gerold raised a shaky finger, over the shoulder of Lyonel. 'There's someone there, I'm sure of it.'

'Gods, he's right,' Robb muttered squinting toward the figure in the distance. 'Who could it be?'

'A man of the Night's Watch, perhaps? Or maybe even a wildling?' The sole Targaryen among them spoke at last, not to anyone in particular but rather under to his breath, most likely to himself. 'But he's not dressed in black, nor in the furs of the free folk.' He trailed off with no further elaboration.

'Show yourself, cur!' The hoarse scream came from Gerold Hightower, who was shakily leaning on his sword to push himself up, appearing to lose any real sense of lucidity. 'In the name of King Aerys, reveal yourself or consider yourself an enemy of the Seven Kingdoms!'

The figure remained silent.

The temperature dropped.

The White Bull

A life spent in servitude and a pointless death, he didn't mind so much. Such was the way of things—he'd been a famous warrior in service of his king and had died accordingly. He'd been old as well, closer to his seventieth birthday than his sixtieth, and so in a strange way had been at peace with his death.

Then he'd awoken in this frozen wasteland, his body as strong as it had been during the war if the ninepenny kings but his mind as sharp as it had been mere moments ago in Dorne. Gerold wasn't sure how he'd got there but seeing his brothers nearby had filled him with comfort, even if he wasn't sure why the Prince of Dorne had been there. They were knights of the Kingsguard, dammit, and they'd got out of tighter situations than the one they found themselves in.

And then came that blasted patch of ice. In all fairness, slipping on the patch of ice itself hadn't really been the issue; the issue was the steep decline he was sent down as a result, shattering his leg and drastically reducing his chances of survival. That, and Oberyn's insistence to keep moving until he could physically move no further.

At some point others had arrived and the sun had begun to rise, but that may have been no more than a fever dream, the final ramblings of a dying brain. Maybe he was still in Dorne or maybe he truly was in the far north. Gerold found that he didn't much care.

At the edge of his vision, a figure had emerged.

He blinked and found himself charging toward the man in the distance, sword in hand, sheath discarded, all pain from his leg miraculously gone.

Gerold was about thirty feet away when he realised quite how cold it was.

Twenty feet when he saw the man was dressed only in a loincloth and was walking toward Gerold.

Ten when he could make out the leathery texture of the man body.

He had five feet to go when he saw the eyes, glowing blue against the pure white landscape.

He was roughly a foot away from the man when his sword shattered against its skin, and he realised that that it hadn't been a man at all. That was also where Gerold looked down to see a crystalline spear in his stomach, coming out of his back and dripping blood into the unbroken snow.

The creature pulled out its spear and moved on without sparing him a second glance.

With that, the Lord Commander of Aerys II's Kingsguard collapsed into the snow, dying for the second time in twenty-four hours.

A/N: Hi! This is my first author's note for my first fic so I don't really have a clue what I'm supposed to say. Hope you're enjoying the story, I guess.

Feel free to leave a review.

Or don't. I'm not your boss.